


You Can Leave Your Hat On

by Naughty_Yorick



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Blow Jobs, Clothing, Competition, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Loves Jaskier | Dandelion, M/M, Power Play, Undressing, light dom!jaskier, light sub!geralt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-22
Updated: 2020-09-22
Packaged: 2021-03-07 21:20:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,577
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26604361
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Naughty_Yorick/pseuds/Naughty_Yorick
Summary: Geralt was suddenly aware of how close they were standing, how wide Jaskier's pupils were - how that dark look in his eyes wasn't hurt or anger but something else entirely."Tell me what you want, Jaskier," he said, keeping his voice low.After facing disappointment at the annual Oxenfurt Bardic Competition, Jaskier has a rather unique way of dealing with his pent-up feelings. Geralt is only too happy to oblige the bard's demands - no matter what he asks for.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 36
Kudos: 354





	You Can Leave Your Hat On

Geralt stared at Jaskier as he entered the tavern.

“No,” he said, simply. “No. You look ridiculous.” 

Jaskier glanced up and blew away the enormous ostrich feather that had fallen in front of his face. 

“I think I look quite dashing,” he said, sitting opposite Geralt with a smirk. “And what would you know about fashion?” 

Geralt glanced down at his own clothing. Black trousers, black shirt, black doublet. If he’d been on the road, black armour. Black and silver, if you counted the studs holding the leather together, although he suspected that Jaskier did not. 

“Anyway,” Jaskier continued, reaching across the table for Geralt’s ale and taking a long drink from it, “it’s for the _competition_. I’ve got to look my best, and everyone’s wearing them.” 

“Then may Melitele save those poor unfortunate ostriches,” said Geralt, pulling his drink away from Jaskier’s grip. 

Jaskier huffed at him. "Geralt," he said, "do you _know_ how expensive this outfit was?" 

"No," said Geralt, and then realising that meant Jaskier was almost certainly going to tell him, he added "and I don't want to know, either." 

Jaskier snorted. "Philistine." 

Jaskier - and the rest of the bards - were due at the competition in forty-five minutes, and Geralt had been waiting for his appearance in the small tavern below his room for an hour. Jaskier had insisted on meeting him beforehand despite the fact it was out of his way: he was staying in rooms in the Academy. He’d attempted to sway them to allow Geralt quarters in the same building, but the Academy had strict rules: students and alumni only. Geralt - like the other guests and partners - had to stay elsewhere. 

At first, Geralt hadn’t minded this arrangement. He and Jaskier spent virtually every waking hour together anyway, and the chance to actually have some alone time - as well as a wide, soft bed to himself - was appealing after months either on the road or sleeping pressed against another body on a hard, itchy mattress. But the first evening he'd spent between those soft cotton sheets he’d lain awake long into the night until even the busy streets of Oxenfurt fell quiet outside. The bed was comfortable and luxurious and warm: but it was also empty. 

By the fourth night, it had become abundantly clear that the only thing a private room and a large bed were good for was the opportunity for a leisurely wank without having to hide what he was up to. 

He couldn’t complain, in any case. Attending the Oxenfurt Academy Bardic Competition was as close to a rest as Geralt would get so deep into summer. There were no contracts to haggle, no monsters to fight. There was no one to protect - apart from Jaskier, of course, who in the presence of art and alcohol was more likely to throw a punch than ever. 

It was a sweet relief, not being needed as a witcher. Here, he was just another attendant, another guest of honour accompanying a flighty bard. While he was the only witcher amongst their company, he certainly wasn't the only unusual patron: there were several non-human attendants, as well as no fewer than three musicians wearing disguises who Jaskier _insisted_ were secret nobility. One of the harpists was rumoured to be a vampire: Geralt hadn't managed to get close enough to check. 

When he was on the Path, with or without Jaskier, he carried with him a certain level of expectation. Villagers, alderman, Lords and Queens and Mayors: they all expected things from him. He was expected to behave a certain way, to ply his trade within their strict boundaries. More than that: he was expected to _lead_. No one _asked_ a witcher to be their leader, of course, no one admitted that he might have any actual power: but by and large they did what he told them and awaited his instructions, whether that meant properly burying their dead or remaining indoors until a threat could be dealt with. 

It was exhausting. It added to the weight on his shoulders, knowing that if his advice - his _demands_ \- were wrong, that the consequent deaths would be on his hands. 

But here he was free of that. No one, especially not these artful students, expected him to be an expert. None needed his advice or assistance. The dramas that there were - and there were many - were petty squabbles, far removed from monsters and murder. 

He thought about Jaskier, and the way he’d been eyeing Valdo Marx at rehearsals the previous evening. 

Perhaps not _so_ far removed from murder. 

Being dragged around Oxenfurt should have been a chore. It should have been an annoyance. But it wasn't: he was glad that, for once, someone else was taking the lead. 

Jaskier was silently buzzing with unspoken anxiety. Beneath the table, his leg was bouncing furiously up and down, and it was taking a great deal of Geralt’s well-practised self control not to press his hand to Jaskier’s knee to still the movement. Jaskier only ever gave into fear like this before the competition. The first time he’d seen it, Geralt had been surprised - even worried that something was seriously wrong with the bard. His endless chattering ceased, his limbs became jittery and wild, his fingers twisted around each other till Geralt was sure he’d break them off. Now, he was used to it: this was the fourth competition Geralt had attended, and Jaskier’s nerves were as bad as ever. 

In taverns, or on the road, or even in royal courts, Jaskier held a captivated audience in his palm. Here, amongst his peers, he was one of many. Geralt could tell he hated it - hated being weighed against his fellow musicians. Yet at the same time, Jaskier would have considered it obscene _not_ to enter. He hated the terrible reality of being judged and ranked and measured, but the thrill of a win was too good to resist. 

Geralt had learnt, by now, Jaskier’s anxious habits: the rituals he adopted as if to ward off bad luck. He would have re-strung his lute a few days ago (it could never be on the same day, lest the quality of the strings be poor and one snap on stage). He would refuse to carry money with him, to prevent jingling as he performed. He would eat a small breakfast and a light lunch but refuse dinner through a fear he might simply step in front of the waiting judges and be sick. There would be a party after the competition, after all, where he could eat his fill without worrying about nerves. 

The most extravagant habit was the clothing. Geralt hesitated to call it _clothing_ , really - it was more a costume. Weeks and weeks of researching styles and trends, of flipping through decades-old books, pulling inspiration from antiques. There was a new one every year, of course: to dress in something old was unthinkable. This, too, was tied somewhat to the idea of courting luck - that newness and luckiness were somehow combined. It was like the song: the song had to be new, never performed, written for the competition. 

Geralt glanced again at Jaskier’s twiddling fingers, his hands poking from expertly sewn sleeves. The outfit was extremely fine, extremely _opulent_ , even for Jaskeir’s already outrageous tastes. The doublet was made from extravagant golden coloured brocade, embroidered on the shoulders and arms with swirling patterns in coral pink and blue which, upon closer inspection, revealed themselves to be flowers. His undershirt, probably satin judging by its slight sheen, was exposed around the high collar of the doublet, framing his face like petals around a flower. 

The doublet was buttoned down the front with a series of tiny, shimmering buttons, and Geralt found himself wondering how Jaskier had ever got the thing on - and then, the thought bringing a little twist to his stomach which he tried to ignore - he wondered how he would remove it later. 

The trousers were a dark maroon colour, tightly tailored around his legs, slipping into knee-high leather boots. The trousers were plain compared to the elaborate designs of the doublet, save for the golden piping running down the outside of his legs. 

Geralt hated to admit that anything so unnecessarily expensive was _good_ , but he couldn’t help but appreciate the way the outfit fit on Jaskier’s body, the way the shades complemented each other, the way the colour of the embroidery - the blues and navies closest to Jaskier’s jaw - made his eyes dazzle. On a mannequin, or beneath the needle-pricked hands of a seamstress, it would have been a wasteful luxury - nothing more than cloth and thread and satin. 

On Jaskier, it was almost like art. 

That thought made him splutter on his ale. He pushed that thought back, easily ignored, boxed away. He was a _witcher_ , for fuck’s sake. He was well practiced in letting his emotions float past like driftwood in a river, never letting himself cling. 

And yet… 

He looked once more at Jaskier, who in his nerves had barely even registered Geralt’s silent contemplations. He was glancing around the room, chewing on his lip, his fingers tapping on the table and his knee bounce-bounce-bouncing beneath it. 

“Jaskier.” 

He blinked, suddenly pulled back from whatever space he was occupying. “...yes?” 

“When do you need to be at the competition?” 

“Ahh…” his fingers rubbed together, unconsciously, “Forty minutes?” 

Geralt nodded, and returned to nursing his drink. When they left the inn not even ten minutes later, Jaskier’s leg was bouncing so furiously that the table was rattling. 

The concert hall wasn’t far, built into another wing of the sprawling academy. Jaskier led the way in silence - a sure sign of his mood. Geralt wondered what thoughts were rattling around his head that he wasn’t giving voice to. Soon he was being hurried into the huge hall, jostled on either side by members of the audience, friends and family and alumni chattering and gossiping. This was perhaps the worst aspect of the week in Oxenfurt: such large, noisy crowds overwhelmed his heightened senses. At least when the competition started they would all fall silent. 

His seat - specially reserved by Jaskier months ago - was halfway back, the last chair on the row nearest the door. This was an unexpected kindness: Jaskier had apparently noted his discomfort in the crush of people and had ensured him a spot where he could easily escape if he needed to. The seat beside him was empty - that one was for Jaskier, who’d return to sit beside him after his performance. The show could last for _hours_ , and he hated waiting backstage. The views, he always said, were so much better from the front. He wanted to watch the others' songs as they were _made_ to be seen. 

When Geralt was settled, Jaskier hovered nervously for a few moments before heading backstage, his lute bouncing against his back as he half-jogged backstage. Geralt had tried to mumble a word of luck to him, but Jaskier had been so lost in his own troubled thoughts that he’d barely even heard him - simply giving Geralt a curt, distracted nod as he left. 

Geralt couldn’t fault him for his nerves, and relaxed against the chair as the rest of the room gradually filled. The chattering of the crowd was becoming near unbearable, and he was considering leaving until the competition began, when there was a shuffling from the front and a tall, angular looking woman strode onto the stage. The audience fell into silence. 

“Greetings, all!” She called, in a high, ringing voice, “to the final performance of this year’s Bardic Competition. As I am sure you will all agree, this year, as ever, the quality of our students’ and alumnus’ is impeccable. Please join us as we celebrate music, the arts, and the wonderful talent of Oxenfurt Academy!” 

The crowd burst into applause, Geralt joining in politely, with significantly less fervor than the rest of the audience. He’d never been one for music or the arts - but for Jaskier’s sake, he could go along with it. 

The first performer swaggered onto the stage, a lyre gripped in one hand. He too was wearing an ostentatious hat. He strummed across the strings, opened his mouth, and wailed. Geralt settled himself in for a long evening. 

Half an hour passed, and Geralt’s only understanding of the quality of each performer was based entirely on the power and duration of the applause that followed. He’d heard enough musical declarations of love to last a lifetime. Frankly: he was bored. He wondered vaguely when Jaskier would perform, an event he knew would be the highlight of the evening for him if not for anybody else. 

There was another performer - this one came without an instrument, singing an insipid song about flowers or the moon or some other nonsense, and then, finally, there he was. 

Jaskier strode onto the stage, and the golden brocade of the doublet shone a little in the light, the embroidered flowers popping. Once again, Geralt found himself wondering just how much it had cost - his earlier dismissal being gently gnawed away by pure curiosity. He wondered if Jaskier’s apparently often penniless existence was a result of his scrimping and saving all year long for this single outfit. 

Geralt couldn't judge Jaskier too harshly: he'd spent his own fair share of coin on mastercrafted armour over the years, although he felt the cost was justified when the product was all that stood between him and an unpleasant death. He glanced at Jaskier's broad shoulders, the swagger of his step and the confidence in his straight back as he strutted across the stage. Perhaps Jaskier's coin was spent on a kind of armour, too. 

Geralt was barely listening to the song, distracted by Jaskier’s dazzling display - like a butterfly, or an exotic, colourful bird. He was talented, that was obvious even to Geralt’s untrained ears: but his charm was more than that. He had a confidence that trickled into the audience, carrying them along. When Jaskier sang - especially for a crowd like this - it was like he was the only person in the room that mattered. The only person in the _world_. And he loved the attention - it only fed him, encouraged his cockiness, added to the sway of his hips and the cheeky tilt of his head when he winked at an unsuspecting audience member. 

The song finished - Geralt had barely listened to the words, too distracted by the man singing them. Jaskier stepped down from the stage to rapturous applause, a huge grin plastered across his face. He gave a final, twirling wave before making his way down the aisle. Geralt shuffled into the empty chair next to him, and Jaskier slid into the other, his face flushed. 

"Well?" He whispered, breathlessly, "thoughts?" 

“You were certainly better than the rest of them,” muttered Geralt, keeping his voice low. "You were good." 

Jaskier waved a dismissive hand towards him, but Geralt could tell he was smiling, even in the darkness. 

They watched the final performances together, occasionally muttering derisive comments to each other. Geralt wasn’t too sure what made a song good or bad, but he’d picked up enough to pass comment. He didn’t care much for the quality of any of the pieces, but Jaskier’s eyes lit up with devilish glee whenever he pointed out a fumbled rhyme or a bum note. 

Finally, all the performers had taken their turn, and one of the judges called for them to return to the stage for the final judging. 

“Right,” Jaskier said, his voice only shaking a little, “time to go. I, ah—” 

He looked, for a moment, like he might say something - his eyes darting around Geralt’s face - then quickly changed his mind. With a brief nod, he set his shoulders and headed back towards the front of the auditorium with the rest of the competitors. 

There was the brief, usual chatter - the judges huddled together, the competitors chatting nervously amongst themselves, pushing aside competitiveness and pride for just a few moments. Eventually one of the judges - a larger, white-haired man with pince-nez clinging lopsidedly to the bridge of his nose - stood up, and gestured for the competitors to take their places. They all fell silent, noiselessly filing onto the platform creating a single-file line, one after the other. 

Geralt could see Jaskier poised near the edge of the stage. He looked calm and collected, but his nerves were betrayed by his white-knuckled grip on the neck of his lute. Geralt could feel similar nerves gripping at himself: of course he _wanted_ Jaskier to win, but he hadn't realised just how _much_ he wanted him to win. He could imagine Jaskier's thrill when his name was called out by the judges, the sparkle in his eyes as he walked across the stage to claim his prize. 

Gods, Geralt wanted him to be _happy_. And Jaskier _was_ happy, of course: but he wanted more than that for him. Geralt wanted him to win, so he could see that sparkle for himself. 

He waited, drawn along with the crowd’s enthusiasm and the hope that it would be Jaskier’s name the judges called. The tension was palpable - you would have heard a pin drop onto the sanded stage. Finally, after what felt like an age, the angular woman extracted herself from where the judges were huddled and climbed up onto the platform, her heeled boots clacking against the wood. 

The competitors, lined up like schoolchildren, watched her closely as she strode in silence to the centre of the platform. She peered back at them, sweeping over them with a cool gaze, before turning back towards the audience. 

She coughed, once. 

And opened her mouth. 

And called a name in clear, unmistakable syllables. 

_Fuck_. 

Jaskier's face was set in a fixed, perfect smile - like an oil painting, a porcelain doll, a statue. His fingers were shaking, although Geralt wasn't sure if anyone else could tell, as the unconquerable Valdo Marx strutted across the stage. 

~ 

They were forced to attend the afterparty, Geralt hovering on the edges as he always did at these sorts of things, Jaskier flitting and mingling and drinking. Geralt watched him closely. He _seemed_ fine - all laughter and lightness - but it was wrong. It was fake. His fingers played with the cuff of his doublet constantly, all twitching and wriggling. If he wasn’t fiddling with the fine fabric he was tapping on his mug or twirling it in his hand. He was never still - always standing, always moving about. 

He still came back to him, as he always did at these events, popping over for ten minutes to gossip and bitch and complain before flitting away again after catching the eye of someone or other he’d not seen in ten years. Fortunately or not, Geralt wasn’t wanting for company: everyone seemed to want to talk to the Witcher. He became a much more approachable figure without blood on his face or his dual swords strapped to his back. Most of them wanted to know if Jaskier’s stories were true. There were so _many_ of Jaskier’s stories that by this stage that it seemed safest just to say that they were, even though it was usually a lie. It was a small price to keep Jaskier’s reputation intact - and his own, of course. 

It was three hours in, and Geralt was becoming increasingly aware of the slow march of time as well as Jaskier’s increasingly foul mood. Valdo had been growing smugger as the minutes trudged by, sauntering around the room in his iridescent blue doublet like a courting peacock or - Geralt thought rather bitterly - a shimmering beetle. It wasn’t just Jaskier who appeared sick of him, either, and several of his friends and colleagues were taking no pains to disguise grimaces and raised eyebrows when Valdo’s back was turned. 

Jaskier, however, was bubbling with a silent rage that Geralt knew as well as his own sour moods. The Academy had kept them all plied and lubricated with a seemingly endless stock of fine wine, which only went some way towards keeping the crowd relaxed and even further towards encouraging loose tongues and hurled insults. Jaskier, however, had been spinning his empty goblet around in his hands for a good half hour - in fact, Geralt had seen him _turn down_ drinks. Perhaps he was trying to keep his temper in check, well aware that a few glasses of Est Est were often all that stood between his usual snark and a slap to the face. 

His resolve was clearly waning, though. He’d dragged Geralt over to meet one of his friends - a pretty bard named Essi who had been, as far as Geralt could tell, Jaskier’s partner in crime during their school days. Essi, like most of the other attendees, had immediately dismissed the faux politeness that one usually reserved for a witcher and had launched straight into a question about the subject of one of Jaskier’s most recent songs - something about a siren - and her genuine interest had encouraged Geralt to answer her honestly, for once. She seemed interested not in the blood and gore but in the creatures themselves, their appearance, their language. 

Jaskier stood with them but was largely quiet, his pinched into a frown as his eyes lingered not on them but on Valdo, who was laughing obnoxiously with one of the judges. Essi and Geralt shared a nervous glance - Essi appeared to be just as concerned as Geralt was. Insults and arguments were expected at these sorts of things - but _not_ at the winner’s party. 

And then, over the hubbub of the crowd, came a snippet of Valdo’s conversation - loud enough for them all to hear. 

“...unfortunately, one has to take inspiration where one can find it; be it in the royal court or in a Witcher’s bed. One must make sacrifices for art, after all!” 

Jaskier’s fragile resolve - the last lingering ties holding back his fury - snapped. The goblet fell to the floor with a clatter, and several faces swivelled to stare at him. Geralt knew what Jaskier was going to do before the bard himself did, suddenly bombarded with the acrid smell of rage, that kick of adrenaline that he’d come to recognise as Jaskier’s body preparing him for a fight. 

He took a single step forwards before Geralt’s hand shot out, gripping his wrist. He spun to glare at him, eyes blazing. Geralt ignored his expression, speaking just loud enough for the onlookers to hear. 

“I think I’m bored of music and mingling,” he said, loosening his fingers so the restraining grip became softer - a suggestion, rather than a command, a gesture more for the watching crowd than Jaskier himself, “Perhaps you would escort me back to my lodgings? Oxenfurt is a maze, even to a Witcher.” 

Jaskier blinked, and his eyes darted to Geralt’s hand on his wrist. For a moment, Geralt feared that his plan hadn’t worked - that Jaskier would wrench his hand from his grip and set upon Valdo regardless. 

“Of course,” he said, his tone clipped. 

Geralt relaxed a little, and released Jaskier’s wrist. 

“Apologies,” he said, nodding towards Essi, “We’ll see you tomorrow.” 

He let Jaskier lead him from the room, through the incomprehensible inner corridors of the Academy and out into the street. As soon as they’d entered the cool night air, Geralt took the lead, pressing close to Jaskier until they’d turned the corner towards the inn. He could feel Jaskier trembling beside him, neither of them speaking, and it was a relief for them both when they finally entered his room, the door clicking shut behind them. 

Geralt hadn’t truly needed Jaskier’s help finding the inn, but it seemed a wiser choice than leading Jaskier back to his own rooms. For one, Geralt wasn’t too sure _where_ exactly he was staying - just _somewhere in the Academy_. But more so - he wanted to make sure Jaskier would stay put. If he simply deposited him back in his temporary lodgings then he knew full well that Jaskier would be back out and on the warpath before Geralt had even made it into the next street. 

Moreso, he wanted to make sure he was okay. He didn’t want Jaskier to go and get his ribs broken in a fight, of course, but even worse was the idea that he might just curl up on his bed and sob himself to sleep. 

Jaskier’s eyes swept around the room, taking it in. _He’d_ paid for it, after all - he’d insisted, in fact, apparently wracked with guilt that he hadn’t been able to procure a room for Geralt in the Academy. It was well-furnished with a wide bed, a plush rug on the floor and even a table and chairs - unused, of course. He turned around to face Geralt, who was quietly locking the door, awaiting whatever outburst was to follow. 

Jaskier's eyes flashed furiously. Now they were alone, his seething feelings were bubbling over. Geralt could smell it on him - sharp and tart. 

“I can’t believe they gave the award to that, that…” he spluttered, wine and rage muddling his tongue, making him lose his words. “He’s a talentless hack! A wastrel! He, he… _fuck!_ ” He swore, unable to find the right way to describe just _how_ awful Valdo Marx was. 

“Jaskier…” Geralt was ignored. He knew that any attempts to calm Jaskier in this state were futile, but he had to try. 

The bard was now pacing the room, his arms wildly gesticulating. Geralt stood back, keen not to find himself being accidentally assaulted. 

“And then that line about a… a witcher’s bed! The fucking _nerve_ of him!” 

Geralt floundered in the conversation. Was Jaskier insulted at the implication that they were sleeping together? “But you… but _we’re_ not—” 

“Yes, Geralt!” He shouted, “I’m _well aware_ of that!” 

“So—” 

“So it was meant as an insult!” 

That shouldn’t have stung as much as it did. “I see.” 

Jaskier span to look at him, his hair tousled, his chest heaving. “Geralt,” he said, voice shaking, “This isn’t… I’m not…” he shook his head, the ridiculous feather on his hat swaying. “It’s an insult to _you_ , Geralt. I don’t give a _shit_ what Valdo thinks about me. Let him hate me. But _you?_ You spend _all your life_ saving ungrateful rat bastards like Valdo and he thinks that somehow tying me to you is an _insult_? Like you’re not one of the…” he suddenly stopped, reigning himself in, his hands balled into fists. “You should have let me at him, Geralt.” 

“And let you get kicked out of the Academy? You can find him tomorrow and hurl all the insults you want at him then, when you’re _not_ supposed to be celebrating his victory…” 

“Victory?” Jaskier spat, nostrils flaring, “An _unearned_ victory!” 

He continued to pace, unable to keep still. 

“His performance wasn’t even that good!” He cried, fingers flexing, “And I worked _so_ damn hard on that song, and spent _so much_ fucking money on this outift… It’s cruel! Cruel and unfair and, and…” And then the tart anger suddenly dropped away, and Jaskier's voice cracked, shattering in his throat. “I just…” 

His eyes glimmered with angry tears. 

"You just wanted to win?" Geralt finished for him. 

"I wanted _more_ than that." Jaskier said, quietly. 

Geralt stepped forwards, placing his hands on Jaskier's shoulders. 

"Tell me." 

"What?" 

"Tell me what else you want." 

"Geralt…" 

"Do you want to go to sleep? Do you want to go and slap the smile from Marx's face? Do you want to go back out and get pissed?" 

Jaskier swallowed heavily, and his gaze darted down to Geralt's lips then back up to his eyes. Geralt could hear his heart suddenly beating faster, smell the unmistakable scent of— 

_Oh_. Geralt was suddenly aware of how close they were standing, how wide Jaskier's pupils were - how that dark look in his eyes wasn't hurt or anger but something else entirely. 

"Tell me what you want, Jaskier," he repeated, keeping his voice low. 

And then Jaskier was kissing him, his lips hungry and desperate against Geralt's. The sudden movement took Geralt by surprise and he stumbled back, slamming into the wall as Jaskier pinned him against the wood. He was more than willing beneath Jaskier’s frantic movements, opening his mouth beneath him, exploding with his taste - wine and salt and _Jaskier_. Geralt’s hands found themselves unconsciously moving to Jaskier’s hips, gripping him, pressing him closer. 

Jaskier’s hands tangled in Geralt’s hair, roamed across the wide plane of his chest. His tongue played against Geralt’s lips, against his _own_ tongue, and Geralt couldn’t stop the low, rumbling noise that escaped his throat. And then, in a quick movement, Jaskier trapped Geralt’s lower lip between his teeth in a gentle tug. Geralt gasped against him, and Jaskier released his lip with a low, throaty chuckle. He pressed his forehead against Geralt’s, their breaths mingling. 

Beneath Geralt’s hands, Jaskier was virtually vibrating, full of unspent, fiery energy: first from the competition itself and then from the anger of the loss. He _wanted_ without knowing _what_ he wanted, reaching out to meet a need that he couldn’t name. Geralt could help him give it a name. 

"Tell me what you want me to do." 

Jaskier's eyes darkened even more and he pulled away to better look at Geralt. "Anything?" 

Geralt considered this. "Within reason," he said. "If you want Valdo Marx dead you'll have to do it yourself." 

Jaskier smirked. “That’s not at all as fun,” he said, snaking an arm around Geralt’s neck, “you’re so much more skilled with a sword than I am…” 

He pressed himself to Geralt’s chest, the tart smell of anger wholly dissipated, replaced with the sticky smell of lust. His expression wasn’t flirtatious - it was _more_ than that. It held the power he’d exuded on the stage - all that charm and charisma - concentrated down, hot and urgent and directed not at an audience but solely at Geralt. 

Geralt couldn’t remember the last time he and Jaskier had been alone like this, not surrounded by strangers. Since arriving in the city, they’d spent plenty of time _together_ , but never just the two of them: always in inns or markets or, like tonight, the Academy. And now it was just them - with Jaskier’s arms wrapped around his neck, the feeling of his kiss still tingling on his lips, exuding a confidence that Geralt had never experienced before. 

He wanted to experience more of it. He’d always been attracted to Jaskier - it felt, after so many years, that it would have been absurd not to be - but this was hot and new. He wanted to give himself up to him. 

The outfit that Geralt had thought so poorly of just hours ago only added to Jaskier’s appeal, the cut emphasising the shape of his torso, the high neck keeping his chin aloft. Even the golden brocade, ostentatious as it was, added to the final effect. Geralt had doubted how simple fabric stitched together could be so valuable to Jaskier: now he _knew_. It _was_ armour - carefully chosen pieces slotting together. 

Apart from, of course, the hat. Geralt’s first instinct was to reach for it and tear it away. As if anticipating what he was about to do, Jaskier ducked out of his reach, laughing. 

“The hat stays on.” 

“But—” 

Jaskier silenced him with a look: a single raised eyebrow, a quirk of his lips. “The hat stays _on_. You asked what _I_ want, afterall." 

"Hmm," Geralt murmured, leaning in, "I may be beginning to regret that…" 

He pressed his lips to Jaskier's jaw, who shivered beneath the touch. Grinning, he nuzzled into the crook of Jaskier’s neck, the silk brocade rubbing against his cheek, “So tell me…" he said, "tell me what you want me to do, Jaskier." 

“Kiss me.” 

Geralt did - starting with his jaw and moving up, placing a feather-light kiss to the corner of Jaskier’s mouth. The kiss lasted just a moment, and Jaskier made a pained noise when Geralt pulled away. 

“Again,” he said, “harder.” 

Geralt was happy to oblige, pressing one hand to the back of Jaskier’s head and pulling him close, kissing him fiercely, letting his tongue explore the softness of Jaskier’s lips, tasting him, drinking him in. He gasped beneath his careful touches, and with his other hand Geralt grabbed his waist and pulled him closer. 

"My clothes…" Jaskier muttered against Geralt’s lips, “take them off.” 

The command, so confidently given, bypassed Geralt's brain and went straight to his cock, reason abandoned to the need to follow Jaskier’s words. He grabbed at the doublet, feeling the intricately patterned fabric beneath his fingers, ready to rip it away if it meant he could finally reach the waiting skin beneath. Jaskier seemed to guess what it was he was planning. 

"No you don't, you brute,” he murmured, pressing a hot kiss to Geralt’s jaw, "if you rip these clothes to shreds I’ll leave you to finish yourself off…” 

“No you won't,” muttered Geralt, emboldened by the tart smell of arousal and the feeling of Jaskier’s hardening prick pressing against his hip. 

“Urgh,” Jaskier huffed, “you’re right, I won’t. You’ll just have to…” 

"Have to what?" 

"Take them off..." Jaskier paused, his chest rising and falling in heavy, heaving breaths. "Slowly. _Carefully_. I don’t want to see a single _stitch_ out of place." 

Geralt leant back, and saw the playful glimmer in Jaskier’s eye. His hair was ruffled and his face pink, but his posture was sure and strong. Jaskier’s eyes burned into him, so very _sure_ , so ready to ask. 

And Geralt was ready to give. 

“What first?” He asked, running a hand down Jaskier’s arm. 

“The doublet,” Jaskier said, watching him carefully. 

Geralt’s hands fluttered over the intricate piece of clothing, all buttons and ribbons tied in neat, impossible patterns. The front was secured with a series of maddeningly tiny buttons running from neck to hem, and the back tied with criss-crossing ribbons, securing the whole thing in place and synching it to Jaskier’s waist, emphasising his silhouette. 

Geralt didn’t even know where to start. He peered up and spotted Jaskier watching him with laughing eyes, his eyebrows raised. He turned, slowly, so Geralt could access the ties at the back. 

“Here,” he whispered, “you need to loosen it. Careful with the ribbons.” 

Geralt let his hands linger on Jaskier’s waist for a moment before moving to the small of his back where the ribbons - in three different shades of red - were tied in an intricate bow. He pulled at the first one gently, and the bow pulled apart beneath his fingers, the silk cool and luxurious against his calloused hands. He made his way up Jaskier’s back, slowly unthreading each ribbon from its eyelet. 

He danced up Jaskier’s spine, rubbing his thumb over the space that opened up as the doublet loosened. Jaskier shuddered against the touch, arching his back, and Geralt grinned to himself. 

Soon, he’d reached Jaskier’s shoulders, and the ribbons hung loosely from his nape like a cape. 

“Keep the ribbons neat,” Jaskier commanded over his shoulder, “tie them and put them somewhere safe.” 

Geralt did as he was told, and one by one he pulled the ribbons from the final eyelet, twisting them around his hands as carefully as he could then gently placing them down on the little table. 

“What next?” 

Jaskier turned. His face was pleasantly flushed, like Geralt had been doing something far more salacious than simply and slowly untying his laces. 

“The buttons,” he said, “but carefully.” 

The buttons were tiny beneath Geralt’s hands, shimmering and pearlescent. They were an aesthetic choice rather than a practical one, no doubt buttoned with some fiddling, meticulous tool. But Geralt had no such luxuries: his fingers would have to do. 

He started at Jaskier’s neck, where the golden fabric was clasped close, the collar reaching to his jaw. The first button easily came away beneath his hands - it was larger than the others, a statement piece, designed to draw the eye to Jaskier’s neck and face. It opened to reveal a few more inches of skin. Geralt couldn’t help but touch, rubbing his fingers beneath the fabric. 

“Ah,” said Jaskier, “not yet.” 

Geralt _ached_ for more, but that voice - a command that sounded more like a warning - was too good to disobey. Following Jaskier’s instructions, he moved his hands away from the soft skin of his neck and back towards the buttons. 

Jaskier watched him as Geralt moved down his chest, the buttons slowly coming away beneath his fingers. He struggled with the first few, trying to open them in a too-large grip, but soon he found a rhythm to it and they opened easily. His wrists were firmly pressed to Jaskier’s chest, never leaving but to slide slowly down as he moved from one button to the next. He could feel Jaskier’s chest moving, hear his heart beating fast beneath the layers of silk and linen and thread. From the outside Jaskier looked calm, like ordering his best friend to undress him was something he did every day, but Geralt could tell that he was racing with adrenaline. 

After what felt like hours, the row of tiny buttons had been breached, and the doublet fell open, revealing a luxurious cream-coloured tunic beneath. Slowly Geralt tugged the doublet down, pulling it from Jaskier’s arms. 

“Put it somewhere tidy,” said Jaskier, “hang it up.” 

Geralt peered around the room, then hung the jacket on the back of the single wooden chair, making sure it was straight and without creases. Jaskier smiled. 

“Very good,” he said, softly. “Now… the undershirt. Carefully, too; this is satin.” 

Geralt stepped towards him, placing his hands on his waist. The expensive fabric moved beneath his grip, twisting cooly against his fingers. He stroked upwards, enjoying the feeling of the satin slipping against Jaskier’s skin. He edged closer with just the slightest tilt of his head, anticipating another kiss - but Jaskier pressed a finger to his parted lips with a low hum. 

“Undress me first,” he said. 

The tunic was buttoned at the cuffs, three little satin-topped buttons nestled in each of Jaskier’s wrists. Geralt lifted his arm and got started on those first, flicking them open deftly till the billowy sleeves hung loosely around Jaskier’s arms, revealing toned muscle and the soft skin on the inside of his wrists, begging to be kissed. Geralt didn’t, however: he stopped himself, following Jaskier’s request to undress him. 

Next came the tie at the neck - a simple one, thank all the gods, just above Jaskier’s sternum. Geralt untied it swiftly, then tugged the undershirt up and away, before folding it carefully and placing it on the chair alongside the doublet. His breath hitched when he turned back to Jaskier, allowing himself a moment to appreciate the broadness of his shoulders and the muscle of his arms. Geralt knew that years on the road beside him had had an effect on Jaskier’s body, but he very rarely _looked_ \- very rarely _allowed_ himself to look, always concerned that to do so would be indecent, somehow. 

But now - with this new buzzing thing between them - he _could_ look. He stepped forward, his eyes drifting across the expanse of Jaskier’s bare chest, taking him in where Geralt knew he couldn’t touch - not without being asked. Being _told_. He could feel Jaskier’s gaze boring into him, and when he finally dragged his eyes away from the tempting line of hair that traced from his navel down into the waistband of his trousers he could see that Jaskier’s face was pink. He blinked at Geralt - just once - but said nothing. 

Geralt took another step forwards, till Jaskier was close enough to touch. “What next?” He asked. 

“My boots.” 

Geralt hesitated, just for a moment, then dropped to his knees between Jaskier’s feet. He heard Jaskier gasp - a tiny noise that only his keen hearing could have picked up on - and he reached for his leg. The boots were made of soft, brown leather, laced up the front. They were the simplest part of the outfit - Geralt hesitated to call them _practical_ , but they weren’t as showy as the doublet or the trousers or the awful hat. 

He loosened the laces first, then gently placed a hand behind Jaskier's knee, lifting his leg. Jaskier wobbled a little, and his hand immediately shot out, grabbing at the top of Geralt’s head to keep him from toppling over. His fingers tangled in Geralt's hair, the tips dragging along his scalp, sending tingles shooting down his spine. 

Gently, so as not to pull at the supple leather, he tugged the boot from Jaskier's foot, keeping his other hand nestled in the crook of his knee. It slid off easily, and Geralt stroked his hand down Jaskier's calf as he placed his foot back on the floor. He repeated the movement with the second boot, reverently pulling it away and placing it with care beside the other, Jaskier's fingers twitching through his hair the whole time. 

When he was done, he remained kneeling at Jaskier's feet, waiting. He knew what was coming - what item Jaskier would request to be removed next. 

He peered up. And - gods - from below, Jaskier looked near magnificent. He looked down at Geralt like he wanted to devour him. He rose to his feet without breaking his gaze, and Jaskier turned around with a soft, sly grin. 

“Take my trousers off,” he said. 

The breeches were tied at the back, nestled in the small of Jaskier’s back, just above his arse. Geralt resisted the urge to give it a cheeky pinch as he undid the bow, slipping his fingers beneath the cord to loosen the criss-cross fastening. When it was loose, and the waistband slipping dangerously low around Jaskier’s hips, he spun him back around, his hands the only thing keeping the breeches falling even lower. 

Slowly, gently, he began to tug at the fabric, lowering himself back down as he did. The rich red fabric was heavy and luxurious under his fingers, Jaskier’s skin beneath invitingly warm. This close to him, it was clear that Jaskier was enjoying whatever this was just as much as he was - his cock straining against the fabric, catching on it slightly as Geralt pulled the breeches down and away. 

He slid the trousers over Jaskier’s feet, hugely aware of how close his erection was to his face, leaving him stood only in his smallclothes - which, Geralt noted - were also made of satin. He folded them and placed them next to the doublet and undershirt, wondering just how much of his self control was left. Jaskier stood bold and nearly-naked in the centre of the room, his prick jutting from his smallclothes, and as Geralt stood once more he chuckled, the sound low, vibrating straight to Geralt's core. 

"Now yours," he said, "or else this is dreadfully unfair." 

Geralt dispatched his own clothes with more speed, not caring for splits or tears, throwing them to the floor haphazardly. Jaskier watched as he undressed, his plump lower lip trapped beneath his teeth, his face flushed. When Geralt was down to his smallclothes, Jaskier pounced, wrapping his hands around his neck and pulling Geralt towards him with another kiss. 

He ran his hand down the arch of Jaskier’s back towards the sloping curve of his arse, when Jaskier suddenly broke away. He pressed their foreheads together with a low chuckle, teasing a single finger up Geralt’s chest, over his neck, across his jaw to his lips. 

_Of course_. “Is there something you want me to do?” Geralt asked, keeping his hand firmly pressed to Jaskier’s arse. 

“You’re not done,” Jaskier said, slowly. “Take everything off.” 

“Me or you?” 

There was only the slightest pause. “You.” 

Geralt slipped out of his smallclothes, letting them drop to the floor around his ankles. There wasn’t a particularly seductive way to remove one’s underwear, especially when standing, but Jaskier didn’t seem to notice the awkward, self-conscious way Geralt shuffled the cotton down from his hips: his eyes were lidded, his breaths low and heavy. He stared, unrepentantly, _hungrily_. Geralt was already hard, and beneath that gaze he could feel his cock filling even more. 

Jaskier had noticed too - of course he had - and he moved forwards, his eyes dragging away from Geralt’s prick to his face. 

Geralt didn’t know what Jaskier would ask of him next - although he could guess. He knew whatever it was he would willingly do it, and more than that: knew that Jaskier would never ask for more than he was willing to give. He wondered what the command would be. If Jaskier wanted to touch him, or if he wanted to be touched _by_ him. If he wanted to be fucked - or something else. 

He took a step forward, then another, backing Geralt back against the wall. Geralt waited, holding his breath. 

“Touch yourself.” 

He hadn’t been expecting that. “I… what?” 

Jaskier quirked a single eyebrow, his arms folding across his chest in a way that was almost petulant. 

“Touch yourself,” he repeated. “I know you know how. I’ve heard you at it enough times…” 

Geralt’s breath caught. He’d always tried to be discrete. The sudden realisation that Jaskier had _heard_ him - heard him on more than one occasion - was nearly enough to shock the arousal right out of him. 

_Nearly_ enough. 

He reached down, holding Jaskier’s gaze, and gripped himself with his hand. Jaskier smiled, chewing on the inside of his lip. 

“Tell me,” he said, slowly, “what you’re thinking about.” 

Geralt squeezed himself tighter. “You,” he gasped, slumping against the wall. 

“What _about_ me?” 

_Gods_. Geralt tried to remember to breathe, matching the rhythm of his slow gasps with the stroking movement of his hand. 

“Your lips,” he muttered, “your arse. Your cock.” 

“Tell me about my lips,” said Jaskier. “Where are you imagining them?” 

Geralt responded with a low, half-muffled moan. He stroked himself quicker, feeling himself tensing, rubbing his thumb over the tip of his prick, spreading the little beads of moisture around the head. His eyes slid shut, and he didn’t even realise Jaskier was standing right next to him until the bard spoke again. 

“Tell me what you’re picturing my lips doing,” he said. 

“Your lips,” Geralt gasped in a rush, “around my prick.” 

Jaskier grinned at him, and suddenly he was pressed against Geralt’s chest, one hand creeping towards his hip. His lips were hovering over Geralt’s neck, a soft not-touch that set his skin on fire. 

“Are you close?” He muttered into Geralt’s ear, followed by a quick, sharp nip to his earlobe. 

“I, yes—” Geralt breathed, feeling himself on the edge. 

“How close?” 

“I—” 

“Stop.” 

Geralt froze. “What?” He managed, voice crackling. 

“Stop. Can you do that?” 

He could - just. Geralt unhanded himself, breathing slowly, using all the control afforded to him from his training and mutated senses to reign himself back in. 

“Hmm”, purred Jaskier, smugly, “very good. Well done.” He paused, and his hand began to drift from Geralt’s hip, seeking him out. “I want to…” he stopped himself, the demand turning into a question in his mouth, “Can I..?” 

Geralt hummed an assent, unsure if he could actually manage a coherent response. In lieu of actual words, he pulled an arm around Jaskier, tugging him closer and burying his nose in his neck with another hum. Jaskier pressed against him, and Geralt felt his slender, slightly calloused fingers find his prick, firmly wrapping themselves around it. 

“I want you to come for me,” he whispered, his breath hot on Geralt’s skin. 

“ _Fuck_.” It was all Geralt could say. 

He felt Jaskier grin against his neck as he began to twist his hand, then suddenly the soft touch of his lips moved, tracing a line down his bare chest, drifting across a nipple before going lower. Geralt sensed him dropping to his knees, the soft thumps against the wood, the shift of his hands around Geralt’s hips. And then - gently, like a question - he felt Jaskier’s lips pressed against the head of his cock in an open-mouthed kiss. 

He bucked instinctively against Jaskier’s mouth, unable to hold back the low groan that escaped him. Jaskier chuckled, the noise far-away sounding. 

“Yes?” He whispered, lips brushing against the too-sensitive skin. 

“Yes,” Geralt choked, “I—” 

He kissed him again, deeper, his tongue flicking out. “I want you…” he repeated, “to…” the kiss became a lick, “...come for me, Geralt.” 

Geralt would have willingly done anything Jaskier had asked of him at that moment - no matter how ludicrous - but that request was oh so easy to obey. He pressed against the wall, his head knocking against the wood, his back arching as Jaskier tongued the length of his cock. 

“I want to hear you, Geralt," he muttered, "I want you to say my name." 

And then Jaskier took him fully into his mouth, his tongue hotly pressed against Geralt's prick, his hand squeezing the base. Geralt moaned again, feeling the pressure building, his body lighting up and even his slow heartbeat quickening as he sped towards release. 

"Jaskier…" he stuttered, " _fuck,_ Jaskier—" 

Jaskier hummed, his lips still squeezing around him, the vibration of the sound sending shockwaves through Geralt's body. He dipped forwards, taking him deeper, his mouth hot and wet, his tongue attentive and flicking, his lips tight - and the pressure was building and teeming, desperate for release, carrying him towards— 

There was a new sensation. A repetitive tickling on his chest, skirting over his sweaty skin. His eyes snapped open. The ostrich feather atop Jaskier's terrible hat was brushing against him with the bard's languid movements. 

There was absolutely nothing he could do about the absurd situation, already too close to the peak, Jaskier moving faster, urgently, _powerfully_ \- and then, with a moan that escaped tangled in Jaskier's name - he was coming into his mouth. 

Jaskier stilled, his hand still gently pressed against Geralt, ensuring he was completely spent before moving away. As soon as he did, Geralt let himself slide down the wall, his knees weak. Jaskier followed, and Geralt leant against the wood, Jaskier still between his knees, their legs twined together. 

“Jaskier…” he huffed, already feeling his senses returning and his body calming, “that was…” 

Jaskier grinned, his face flushed, his expression more than a little smug. “Yeah.” 

They sat in silence for a few more moments, before Geralt could bear it no longer. “Come here,” he said, gesturing, reaching out a hand. 

Jaskier took it, and Geralt dragged him onto his lap. He grinned as Geralt tugged him closer, placing a hand on either hip. Geralt couldn’t resist the cocky smile, and pressed another kiss to his lips with a satisfied hum. Jaskier reached up, his hands finding that sensitive spot at the back of Geralt’s head once more. That soft touch, so freely given, lit up his nerves, and as Jaskier shifted against him Geralt could feel his prick begin to twitch back into life. 

Jaskier laughed, leaning away and peering down, his eyebrows raised. 

“Seriously?” He said, “Already?” 

Geralt shrugged. “Witcher.” 

Jaskier shook his head in a kind of awed disbelief. “And I didn’t already know this _because..?_ ” 

“You never asked.” 

Jaskier hummed, thoughtfully. “Well,” he said, “that’s… certainly interesting.” He shifted again, the wriggling of his hips now a very deliberate movement. When Geralt responded with a low rumble, he licked his lips. “ _Very_ interesting.” 

Geralt pulled him closer. “Is there something else you want?” He asked. 

Jaskier considered this. “Would you like a list?” He said, finally. “I mean, that is…” there was suddenly hesitation in his voice, an undercurrent of fear to the heady scents wafting from his bare skin, “if this is something you’d be interested in, ah… continuing?” 

Geralt was very much interested in continuing - he’d been thinking about this, or something like it, for an embarrassingly long amount of time. But he didn’t have the words to tell Jaskier that, didn’t have the _poetry_ to admit it. Instead, he placed a hand on the back of Jaskier’s head and pulled him down for another kiss, exploring the edge of Jaskier’s mouth with his tongue. That seemed to be answer enough - and when Jaskier was properly distracted Geralt seized the opportunity, grabbing the ridiculous hat and pulling it from his head. 

“Hey!” Jaskier pulled away, outraged. 

“I’ll be interested,” said Geralt, gently placing the offending item just out of arm’s reach, “if you promise to burn the hat.” 

“How can you expect me to make such a difficult choice?” Jaskier huffed. 

Geralt said nothing, merely placed a soft line of kisses from Jaskier’s jaw to his neck, opening his mouth against the soft skin. Jaskier shivered beneath him with a sigh. 

“Oh you really _are_ unfair. I’m keeping it for competitions,” he said, “ _and_ performances.” Geralt nuzzled harder, sucking a little at Jaskier’s neck. Jaskier’s next words came stuttering around a low gasp. “...and you can rip it off as soon as I’m done, hmm? Is that amenable?” 

“I think I can live with that,” Geralt replied, enjoying the way Jaskier squirmed on his lap. “About this list…” 

“Hmm…” Jaskier mumbled, “It’s an extensive list…” 

“What about tonight? Right now?" 

He barely seemed to think about it. “I want you to take me to bed.” He said. “If you’re— _Oh!_ ” 

He squeaked, wrapping his legs around Geralt’s waist as he stood in a quick, fluid motion, lifting him straight off the ground. 

“I didn’t expect you to take that so _literally_ ,” he muttered into Geralt’s neck, clinging to him as Geralt made his way towards the bed on the other side of the room. 

Geralt lowered Jaskier down onto the mattress, settling himself beside him, letting his hand rest on the gentle divot of his hip bone. Jaskier watched him, his chest rising and falling with heavy breaths. The cockiness from before had fallen away a little - lying on the bed next to him he looked suddenly more vulnerable. A thought crossed Geralt's mind, immediate enough to push aside his eagerness to feel Jaskier’s body beneath him. 

“Why was the competition so important?” He said, slowly. “Why did you want to win so badly?” 

Jaskier’s eyes shimmered. Geralt felt a stab of guilt - perhaps it had been cruel to ask. 

“It wasn’t the winning,” Jaskier said quietly. “Although I _wanted_ to win, obviously. But…” 

Geralt didn’t move, just continued to apply the gentle pressure of his hand, letting Jaskier speak as the words came to him. 

“I just want to be appreciated.” He murmured, “I want to be admired.” Jaskier looked up at him, and his next word caught in his throat. “Loved.” 

Jaskier’s sadness was palpable - his unerring belief that he was unappreciated, unadmired. Unloved. Geralt bent lower and pressed a soft, single kiss to his lips. 

“You are,” he said, softly. 

Jaskier snorted, derisively, twisting away. “Not enough to win,” he said, “not enough for them to deem me worthy.” He swallowed, deliberately looking away. “Tolerated, perhaps. Enjoyed. But nothing more than that.” 

Geralt couldn’t stand it. He moved his hand to Jaskier’s jaw, firmly but gently turning his head around to face him, so he couldn’t possibly look away. 

“Jaskier,” he said, “you _are_.” 

He kissed him again, with urgency, and Jaskier melted beneath him. His hand fluttered to Geralt's shoulder, his fingertips desperately digging into Geralt's skin, like a drowning man clinging to driftwood. Geralt lowered himself down, sighing at the soft touch of skin on skin, sliding an arm beneath Jaskier's torso to pull him closer. 

Before, when Jaskier had pinned him to the wall, there had been a frenzy to their kisses, a desperation to fully feel the other beneath them, a thousand boiling emotions urging them forwards. But this was different: slow and sure, their bodies shifting against each other like waves on a shore, the kiss deep and languid. Geralt knew he was bad with words - better with snark than he was with declarations - but he was good with his body, and he hoped Jaskier could sense the weight of his feelings. 

He shuffled in the bed, rolling them both slightly so Jaskier was under him, pressed into the mattress beneath Geralt’s caresses. He finally broke away, Jaskier making a soft little noise as he did, to better look at him. Even in Geralt’s shadow, he looked just as magnificent as he’d done when standing over him. His lips were pink and slightly swollen, his face bright. 

“Geralt…” He whispered, “I…” He was struggling for words, too. 

“What would you like me to do, Jaskier?” Geralt prompted, shifting himself so he wasn’t crushing the bard beneath him. 

Jaskier’s eyes flicked down, taking him in. “Anything?” 

“Anything.” As he said it, he realised how true that was. _Anything_. 

Jaskier licked his lips. Geralt felt himself begin to light up with anticipation. 

Finally, Jaskier spoke. “Tell me.” 

Geralt blinked. 

“I want you to tell me,” he continued, his eyes sparkling. “Tell me how… how I _am_.” 

Something like panic squeezed in Geralt’s chest, stuttering his heartbeat, urging him to run. _Too much,_ it said, _too much. He can’t know, you can’t say—_

He lowered himself down, ignoring the chattering anxiety, the blind panic. He brushed aside Jaskier’s hair, slightly slick with sweat, pressing his lips to his ear. 

And he told him. 

**Author's Note:**

> I hope you enjoyed! Writing demanding, slightly dommy Jaskier is so much fun. You can find me over on tumblr at [A-Kind-Of-Merry-War](https://a-kind-of-merry-war.tumblr.com/) if you want to see more of my nonsense 💖


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